


The Ill Effects of Lesbianism in the Jazz Age

by perseveringProcrastinator (swarmsoflizards), SuperFreakeh



Series: Sewn Together [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swarmsoflizards/pseuds/perseveringProcrastinator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperFreakeh/pseuds/SuperFreakeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told in three parts of two extraordinary women, unbearable hardship, and the improbability of love as ceaseless and enduring as the tick of time.</p>
<p>In which Miss Lalonde and Miss Maryam meet in the most unconventional of ways, which include: sleazy speakeasy shenanigans, covert (though perhaps not accidental) coincidences, and oh so many irresponsible life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1- Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by perseveringProcrastinator and SuperFreakeh (becca-morley and i-havent-been-the-same-since-i on Tumblr, respectively)

You are leaving your old life behind today.

This morning while you were at work, your sister packed a few lonely undersized bags that contained the entirety of your existence and bought two tickets for the evening six o’clock train. She was waiting for you on the sidewalk with one more bag of your things when you got out, and dropped the words "we're leaving" like a grenade in your lap. You absently wonder when it will explode.

Now that you're thinking of it, it was fairly obvious; she had been on you about saving money for a while, and had started walking instead of spending money on the bus fare. She told you she got busted for making a long-distance personal call to New York when she should have been working. You should have seen this coming, but you still can't believe it's happening so suddenly. You never told your manager you were leaving, you're sure your sister didn't tip off her boss, and you sincerely doubt she paid the rent you owe your landlord.

But the point is moot; you're gone now, and if your sister is as thorough as she is at anything else in her life, you won't be found.

She even got you both some spiffy new papers.

Your name is Rose Lalonde now.

You have a terrible feeling about this.


	2. Chapter 2

New York, to be frank, stinks. Literally.

You emerge from a dense, crowded train car that, on your hours-long trip, seemed to capture every nauseating smell imaginable and kept it wafting over every head. As the doors open, you rush to find some breathable air and let your sister pick up your bags.

You take a deep inhale of the morning air.

_Ah_ , you think. _Fresh… shit._

Damn. New York doesn’t smell any better than Chicago or that awful train.

But it _is_ a change of scenery, even if you’re probably going to be used to it in a couple of weeks anyway.

Your sis- Roxy, shuffles out of the train and finds you in the crowd.

“There you are!” She pulls you to the side and allows some bustling passengers to pass. As soon as the majority of people vacate the station, she gives you some space and heartily exclaims, “Welcome home!”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean, ‘Welcome to New York.’” This dirty train station can’t possibly be the white arch to your new home.

She smiles weakly, knowingly. “It’ll be home for now, kiddo.” She looks down at the bags in her hands, not even close to full, and passes you yours. It contains mostly your favorite books, journals, chalk, and knitting supplies, along with a couple worn dresses. You absently wonder what Roxy packed in the five minutes you had to prepare.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks cautiously, and for all her obliviousness that you find yourself cursing on a daily basis, you admit she picks up on the important shifts in your mood.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

-o-

The apartment is dingy, dark, and has a thick layer of grime clinging to every soft surface. Your feet almost sink into the aging wooden floor as you walk through the doorway for the first time. Roxy wipes her hand on her scarf after touching the doorknob.

“Well, it’s a bit of a fixer-upper.”

“Understatement of the entire twentieth century.”

The layout is small. You and your sister will share a bed, which sits on the other side of an open door. You see two mushy, perhaps once-red chairs in front of a short coffee table. The kitchen is equipped with simply the barest of essentials in a corner laden with tan tile.You recall there being two community bathrooms on your way in, segregated by gender. You suppose you’ll take the little victories.

There is nothing else, except a window to the outside world.

Roxy takes your things to the bedroom, to be stored in whatever corner she deems suitable for a lady’s baggage, and you use the corner of your poor excuse for a dress to clear away the sand and cobwebs on the window that block your pristine view of a busy, uneven street below.

There’s a diner, a salon, some form of lounge, and several stores and apartments that must cater to someone, somewhere. You spy a shady, dark man almost stumble into a cluttered alley and two elegantly-swathed women linking arms and bustling quickly across the street, eager to keep their heads down.

It’s any other poor cityscape, you suppose, your elbow leaning on the wooden planks of the window, giving way just the smallest amount and enough to make you worry slightly about the stability of the building. Here, the wealthy are easily spotted in the crowd, as they indulge in the more unsavory parts of life that only the back streets can provide.

You are about to turn away, to see if you can sleep on the lump of a bed, if only to pass the time, when something catches your eye. Your eyes seek out a person, a woman, who strides delicately and yet with intent down the street. She is dressed rather well for a woman who looks so comfortable in the area, you decide, and while she indeed resembles a respected lady, there’s an edgy look to her, too. Her hair is cut short, dark and feathered for a uniquely layered style. She wears glittering things in more places than just her wrist or neckline, but in her hair, around her ears, and even her ankles.

Ah, you pause for a moment as she stops, almost facing you, and looks around. Her dress is simple but of a high quality, and it’s _incredibly_ short. Black frills line the edges and dance around her knees with every quiver she makes. Below, she stops a man for a cigarette (the nerve!) and lights it.

And then she looks directly at you.

You do not move. Her attitude, her beauty, her stance, posture, demeanor, glittering trinkets, swaying walk, cutting smirk-- all of it has you wrapped around her finger within a matter of moments.

She glares, and you finally break away and rush to the other side of the room. After a short time, you sneak up and find a way to barely look over the dusty sil, trying to find her in the warping mass of traffic.

She’s gone.

_But_ , you think to yourself- and you get a funny feeling- _not for long._

-o-

When your sister tells you she found a place to get work, this was not what you had in mind.

Ahead of you, she pushes through a heavy, smoky hallway to a room where she supposedly “knows a fella”, and you trail behind, not wanting to get lost in the grimy labyrinthine hallways. You pass open doors revealing smiling women, an open area with a lonely table and empty chairs, and a shut door with a sighing silhouette pressed against the frosted glass before coming to what can only be the floor of the club.

Good lord. This is perhaps the least likely, and least preferred, option you could have imagined.

Thoughts run through your head. Thoughts like, _will I get to wear clothes?_ and _is this the end of my innocence?_ (You’re not sure if that last one’s sincere, but you have to hold back a snort.)

Roxy continues on, increasingly motivated to get you two through the door.

An old, wooden arch featuring vines and fruits melds into the shadows above the dark green door. Roxy strode right on in, but you linger, your fingertips taking in the rubbed-smooth grain alongside the weary, yellow glow of a lamp that lights the entrance. You take a couple hesitant steps into the club before scurrying in your faded slippers to catch up with your sister.

The club is dark. A deep red wallpaper plasters the walls, creating a shadowy atmosphere and encouraging one to drink eagerly from the massive, glossy bar near the back. Small tables house well-dressed patrons, male and female alike, and you can almost- but not quite- hear their small, secretive conversation. The smoke from their cigarettes casts a curtain over their faces, adding to their anonymity, and it seems each velvet chair is facing a small, barely-lit stage.

On the stage is a piano-

_and you remember, fleetingly, the warmth and the light, the trickles of fingertips on white and black and the world fades into a faux calm-_

and a man playing an off-beat, suave tune. A woman stands to the side, simply humming and swaying, and in the midst of the smoke, you could swear the duet was actually hypnotic. You feel yourself being drawn in, compelled to listen to them a minute or twenty more, but Roxy is making her way to a beaded curtain hidden just near the stage.

A hallway lies in front of you, clad in the same dark wallpaper and sickly lighting. The trickling notes from the piano drift over and you somehow get the feeling that if you close your eyes for more than a few seconds, you would leave this plane of existence entirely. Roxy stops abruptly and knocks on a door to your right. Without waiting for a response, she turns the knob and enters.

You follow.

A man- surprisingly similar to your sister in age, you guess- is reading folded papers intently, occasionally scribbling on one. His eyes are hidden from your sight, tinted glass covering his expression, his golden hair bent over the contours of his face and bathing his skin in shadow. You have to wonder if that position is terribly uncomfortable for his neck.

Roxy clears her throat, taps her heels, and moves around objects, before finally speaking and getting the man’s attention.

“Dirk,” she speaks insistently.

He barely stirs.

Looking up slowly from his work, he pushes back his hairline and reveals glowing amber eyes veiled behind fragile spectacles . “What is it?” You, for a short moment, are afraid; he sounds angry and disturbed.

Roxy grins cheekily and holds out her arms. “We’re here!” She hugs him tightly, keeping him in his chair, and tosses him from left to right.

You crook an eyebrow and let a smirk slip past your lips; so, friendship could be a painful thing in more ways than one.

Dirk pats her on the back unsurely and looks over her shoulder to make eye contact with you. He separates himself from Roxy and gives you a twitch of a smile.

“Is this your sister?”

“Yep, that’s Rosie.”

“Tch. Cute.”

You have to bite back a sniping comment on his own stupid natural beauty before looking back up. However, his next words stop you in your mind’s tracks.

“She’s not cut out to be a dancer.”

Roxy hits him on the arm playfully. “Sure she is! She turns seventeen in just a couple months and is very mature for her age.” She grabs your arms and makes swinging motions with them. “See? She’s completely flexible. Great at following orders.”

Dirk sighs and stands up. He puts his chin in his hand and seems to count every subtle freckle he could find there. “Roxy,” he says slowly. “Your sister is barely legal, for one, and for two, she simply doesn’t possess the… qualities that this club demands.” He shakes his head and folds his arms. “You’ll be fine, but she needs to find work somewhere else.”

You frown at this. You wouldn’t stand for some man judging you on physical appearance and not on competence. You’ve never danced in your life, but you seriously doubt Roxy could have as easy a time trying to find you another job to keep you two afloat (or, that she could possibly be a halfway adequate dancer herself).

While you muse these thoughts to yourself, Roxy and Dirk engage in an argument, Roxy all flailing limbs and swatting palms, and Dirk quiet ferocity and steely glares.

You leave the tiny, cluttered office in favor of the mesmerizing notes and smoky ceilings outside. You make your way past the beaded curtain and find an inconspicuous empty table to view what appears to be the final song of the night.

As you settle down into the plush seat, you allow the haze to take over your mind. A part of you almost believes you could live a happier life if you just allowed the smoke to take you over. You want to become one with it, to let it invade your every pore and to let it control you. You find yourself weary and your eyelids drooping as the thought of warm, welcoming fog making all the important decisions in your life fills every thought. You drift in an imaginary land where the world is bright and clouds pervade the room until a startling chord awakes you from your daze.

The pianist propels his aging fingers over the ivory keys with a swift introduction that leads up into a height-defying arpeggio and wavers. The singer’s voice sweeps in, covering every note and pairing it with such a sweet harmony you get the impression of drowning in it.

Her dress is long and an exquisite shade of maroon, and her hair starkly black, long, and curly. As she sings, she sways, and as she sways, she glistens. She radiates timelessness for every man and woman in the club, as they hide behind their curtains of fog. She winks a couple times at a man here and there, and occasionally gestures with her arms in time to her powerful bursts of song.

You stare in awe, still stuck in the mystical haze that she holds over all. No, perhaps you cannot dance like Roxy, but you think you could sing like _her_.

You can imagine yourself now; a lavender wardrobe, a side-hugging, swooping violet dress and complementary scarf and earrings. You would strut onto the stage, holding yourself with a mighty presence and bestowing on the audience the aura of an empress. You would nod to the pianist, shake out your neck and your jewels and your pearls, and emit from your throat a pervading, invasive sound that one could not help but be captivated by.

Yes, you are positive this is a thing you can see in your future.

You will sing for the low lives of New York City.


End file.
